


ghosts for every season

by debacle



Category: Marvel 616, X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:37:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debacle/pseuds/debacle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if Theresa returned somehow, Monet doubts she'd ever be the same. (She still falls asleep with a prayer on her lips.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	ghosts for every season

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XIV, for the prompt _faith_. Spoilers for X-Factor #244.

They went back to Paris, once. Monet had been sure something terrible would happen, it always did, but there were no anti-mutant rallies, no supervillains, nothing, and neither of them had been completely sure what to do with themselves. They tired themselves out shopping, drank wine in the hotel room – maybe a little too much – and modeled their new clothes, laughing like schoolgirls. Monet had been tipsy enough not to care.

Theresa had called her beautiful.

Monet had laughed at her, kissed her – or maybe she hadn't, maybe Theresa had started it, rested a gentle hand against her cheek and pressed their lips together. Monet can't remember, but she remembers that Theresa's mouth tasted just like the wine. Monet had given into the soft and sweet for a few moments, and then she'd regained her composure enough to dig her nails into Theresa's forearm; Theresa, in response, had gasped and then bitten down on Monet's lip, and Monet had laughed again, pinning Theresa down.

"You're stronger," Theresa had said, already breathing quickly. "That's not fair."

Fairness hadn't mattered so much. Monet had been flushed from the alcohol but still unwilling to give up the advantage, working Theresa out of her clothes – she would have torn them off had they not been new, had they not cost so much money (Monet had paid for them, and while this hadn't been her intention, it was certainly a bonus).

It was a bad habit of Monet's, the compulsion to leave marks, but she did it anyway, dark against the pale skin of Theresa's neck. They'd stayed there for days and, oh, when they'd gotten back to New York, she'd almost wanted someone to say something, but no one had. Pity.

Theresa was never quiet, and she hadn't been quiet then, Monet's hair in her fingers and name in her mouth. Monet had pulled away from her – "Careful, darling, I don't want to pay for broken windows," – and Theresa had pulled her hair sharply until she'd dipped her head again, her tongue working at Theresa's clit (and Monet would never admit that she'd never done that before, not with a woman – she was a quick study, after all).

Theresa didn't shatter any of the glass in the room that night, but Monet would argue that she'd certainly come close.

When Monet had kissed her again, it tasted like wine and victory.

 

 

Monet doesn't really mean to draw up those memories, not now; they come unbidden while she lies in bed, feeling the weight of loss. It's not just Theresa, so many of them are gone now, but Theresa hurts the most, a friend lost – truly lost, as even if she returned somehow, Monet doubts she'd be the same.

After Paris it had never been like that again, New York reminding them both of their obligations, their responsibilities, and back in the real world it seemed almost like it had never happened. Monet never forgot, no, but it had seemed distant, separated from her by time and the haze of that night's wine. Now, though, the memory plays clearly in her head, and she hates herself for that – all the psychic power in the world and she can't keep her own memories from hurting her.

Monet isn't a woman of great faith. When compared to the religious people she's known, her relationship with Islam is far more distant, more casual; she keeps it private, and she doesn't pray as often as she knows she should. She doesn't really think about it, doesn't worry that much. It seems – it seems so far from her life, from the here-and-now, and Monet above all is concerned with results.

She believes, but that's not so hard, really, not when there are gods on Earth, gods she's met and fought and fought beside.

And gods her friends have become, she supposes; she still doesn't understand, nobody does (save Layla, most likely, but she isn't saying much). "Pray for me," Theresa had said, or at least that's what Jamie told Monet – she'd appeared to him before she was gone, him and no one else.

Monet finds herself praying now, though she only knows one way to pray and this certainly isn't it – it's only a prayer because she feels like it is, nothing but quiet words she knows no one will hear. It's the prayer of a desperate woman, lonely and afraid of what's coming but too proud to admit it to anyone but her pillow.

She falls asleep with the prayer on her lips.

 

 

Monet almost screams when she wakes, but her mind processes the image quickly enough that she doesn't try to hurt the intruder – it's most certainly Theresa, hair the most radiant red, though she stands differently, though her eyes are a burning white and she very nearly glows. Monet sits up shaking, dry-mouthed, and Theresa's hard gaze (without question, the gaze of the Morrigan) softens, her eyes are green again, her skin pale and freckled.

If it's a dream, Monet is content to sleep forever.

She clears her throat and straightens up. "You really ought to get a phone, you know."

Theresa smiles. "I'm listening," she says. "I'll always hear you, Monet."

And Monet is shaking still, she wants to scream, to ask questions or call her names; she doesn't want to look so weak and broken (no matter how she may feel) in front of this woman, this – this force of nature that wears the face of Monet's best friend. But she stands, and all she can do is bury her face in Theresa's hair, arms around her shoulders. Theresa's arms wrap around Monet's waist, and they are silent for a long while.

"You've kept me safe a thousand times," Theresa says quietly, her voice soothing – the music hasn't disappeared from it, and Monet is grateful for that. "I'll return the favor, I promise. Have faith in me."

Monet isn't a woman of great faith, but that much she thinks she can do.


End file.
